Among the vineyards of the Peloponnese, at Nemea, a form both strange and familiar emerges from the earth. It does not appear to have been built; rather, it seems to have been revealed, as if it had always existed there, buried in the memory of the place, waiting to return to the light.

The winery is conceived as an architectural discovery: a “flying saucer” that, according to the project’s imagined narrative, landed among the vineyards thousands of years ago. Over time, nature did not reject it but embraced it. Vegetation spread across its surface, the soil wrapped itself around its curves, and the once foreign object was transformed into landscape. The building does not impose itself on the ground, it has become ground.

The entrance is traced as a thin linear incision in the earth. From afar it reads as a crack in time; from nearby it becomes a ritual journey inward. This movement recalls the experience of Mycenaean tholos tombs: a passage from light into shadow, from the external world into an interior, almost primordial space. The winery is not revealed immediately but unfolds gradually, experienced like an initiation.

Kafka’s Metamorphosis operates as a latent allegory. The building exists in a state of continuous transformation, both temporal and material. From a futuristic object it becomes a ruin; from a machine of the future, a monument of the past. This inversion of time, something that seems to arrive from the future yet is read as ancient, forms the core of the narrative.

Architecture here is not fixed, it is a moment within a process of change. As wine transforms through time, the building becomes a vessel of memory and duration. Earth, light, air, and time act as co-creators, telling a story where the future has passed and transformation remains constant.